A night at seven eleven
The ancient fridge sat in the corner, humming louder than the cicadas clicking outside. The smell of slushes, old beer, and microwaveable pizza filled the air. The bell on the door jingled, and the fridge seemed to momentarily stop to stare at the man that just walked through the doors. It was probably 2 A.M. at this point, an old man, probably 60 years old limped through the doors, his eyes were bloodshot, he was shaking profusely, and he had sweat so much it had soaked it’s way through his shirt.
He slowly pulled up a crooked finger and pointed at the cash register and said, “give me the money now.” In a voice barely audible. “Excuse me?” I asked in the politest voice I could manage, a fake smile plastered on my face “GIVE ME ALL YOUR MONEY NOW!” He spat at the top of lungs. “I can’t do that,” I said trying to sound stern, and hide how scared I was. It doesn’t matter how stern I sounded he lunged at the counter, and I did what anyone would, I grabbed the closest thing to me, a baseball bat. I don’t remember much after that, but the next thing I knew I was standing over someone, the smell of blood filled the air. I looked down to see him lying on the floor, blood pooling around his head. He mumbled something about calling for help but I didn’t listen.
I grabbed a bottle of vodka from behind the counter, grabbed a pack of matches and walked out. In one hand I had the pack of matches, in the other I had my blood covered baseball bat. I lit a match and through it into the shop, I ran and waited, suddenly I heard a bang and a flash of heat, I turned around and saw the whole shop on fire. I ran away that night and I will again.
This one is admirably described with plenty of precise sensory details — always a plus, and you are really good at. The louche appearance of the man fits the bottom-dwelling alcoholic well. There are a couple of typos, “it’s” should be “its” in para 1and the “through” at the bottom should be “threw”.
But the plot line is so implausible it overwhelms the descripive precision. Why does the unnamed clerk need a basball bat to stop a would-be robber who is both drunk and frail? One could disarm the man by grasping his wrist and bending his palm toward his elbow (try it, it’s a well known defense maneuver). A good writer resorts to violence only when there is no smarter solution. Violence is like swearing — the effort of a weak mind to express itself strongly.
The story really falls apart with the implausible scene of a store owner burning his own store down with vodka to cover up a non-crime. (A piquant idea if it was a liquor store!) But torching one’s own store to cover up a misbegotten robbery doesn’t pass the smell test of “Why?”
And a FAR more appealing and realistic ending would be for the store owner to take the drunk outside and call for medical help. The man is obviously sick and needs help, not hurt. A good-writer’s ending would be for the man to look at the clerk as he is loaded into the ambulance and saying, “You saw that I needed help and didn’t know how to got it.”
Solving a problem with smart compassion beats stupid use of pain every time — and shows the writer knows how to reveal the underlying issues not made obvious in the narrative itself.
Find a new profession that doen’t promote violence. Your writing is OK but subject stinks.